


Lovers at the Inn

by Thistle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Secret Santa 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistle/pseuds/Thistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slightly fluffy short fic written for monkeyful-basement2 on tumblr for the Sherlock Secret Santa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovers at the Inn

Dartmoor.

 

He wasn't sure why he'd suddenly thought of her. (Lie. He knew exactly why he was thinking of her.)

Perhaps it was the way the waitress had winked at him and let her voice linger a bit when she asked "anything else?" before handing over the ticket. Perhaps that, and the way her hair was falling out of it's twist, a few little curls framing her face and the sleeves of her plum button-up rolled up to her elbows. He let his mind wade in the distant memory of another tourist town in the country.

_A long weekend with his parents, the summer after his fifteenth birthday. He told his parents and sister - who planned to attend some awful historical reenactment - that he had to pick up a book for school (lie) and that he would wander around to the nearby park (true) and that he would meet them back at the the inn in time for dinner (true)._

_She worked in the local bookstore. Must've been three years his elder._

_He had picked a book at random from the bookshelf under the "American Classics" sign, and then tries to impress her by slapping them in front of the register._

_"Haven't read this one yet," John says, leaning a little against the counter._

_She scoffs. "Is that all you've got?" she asks, but smiles all the same._

_Her name is Violet. Her curly hair is cut short, and her movements seem effortless. She walks him around park and behind the shops, pointing at them as she recounts family 'secrets' that she swears everyone already knows. She works in the bookstore that her parents own, and tells him that the town is just as boring yearound, too._

_They kiss for a long while leaning against a rough brick wall directly behind the bookstore. She smiles at him when they part for their respective families that evening._

_"Meet me at the park bridge. Midnight," she tells him._

_John isn't quite sure how to respond, but he says cheekily, "That's inconvenient." But his skin is still buzzing from her body pressed against his, and he gets goosebumps when she whispers in his ear -- "Come anyway."_

_So he promises._

In the bedroom at the Baker Street flat, the walls were a muted, sunny yellow. Mrs. Hudson had hung a large painting of sunflowers in the kitchen, and Sherlock promptly stuffed it in the hall closet, replacing it with a large Periodic Table of the Elements. If he had to choose a favorite color, it wouldn't have been yellow.

John doesn't mind seem to mind, and Sherlock doesn't ask what his favorite color is.

 

It was a quarter 'til three when the bartender noticed the man was still sitting by the fire. He went over, meaning to tell him to go on up to his room. But he had fallen asleep from the warmth of the fire (and his two glasses of scotch), his head resting on his own shoulder. Feeling a little regret for disturbing him, he put his hand on his shoulder. The man nearly jumped out of the chair, looking around wildly.

"Alright? It's late," the bartender said. "You oughtta turn in for the night." The man said nothing.

The bartender cleared his throat. "S'pose it isn't my business, but it seems you have a good one."

"No, it isn't your business," the man replied.

"Hm. Might not be. Whole pub noticed your -" the bartender paused. "- tiff. But maybe.... your pride is worth the risk."

He clapped the man on the shoulder and walked away. Some time later, the bartender saw the man leave, and chuckled to himself.

 

Even though he was too frustrated to sleep, John shut himself in the room anyway. He buried himself under the heavy quilt of the bed, keeping himself to one side. His thoughts drifted, and he let them.

He must have drifted to sleep as well because the next thing he noticed was the room door closing. In the darkness he listened to the light footsteps and what sounded like Sherlock's coat dropping onto the corner chair. A little of his previous annoyance turned to confusion; was Sherlock.... coming to bed? They were still on the Baskerville case, and Sherlock always made a point of refusing to sleep during a case.

Instead, he felt the covers and mattress shift as Sherlock settled down next to him. He couldn't tell if he knew John was awake.

"I know you're awake." Well, that answered that question, and reminded John that he was annoyed.

"Oh, are you speaking to me now?"

"Who else would I be speaking to?"

John sighed, feeling a peculiar pang in his chest. Neither said a word more.

 

The case was solved earlier that night, and after John left Henry with his therapist and Sherlock was through explaining everything to Greg and Dr. Stapleton, John insisted he and Sherlock sleep before traveling back to Baker Street. Like the previous night, John tucks himself in at the very edge facing the wall.

"John, when I-" Sherlock stops himself. He speaks softly, but slow as he continues. "I don't know if I fully understood how to explain --"

"Really?" John interrupts. "Because usually you understand and the first to tell everyone how they missed it."

"Please, let me finish," Sherlock says, this time in a whisper. John hears a strange tone, something like desperation, in his voice. But that was wrong, wasn't it? Sherlock continues. "I have thought at length... about our relationship. And... it seems to me that... we are not friends. Not really."

"I thought you were done with this conversation."

"No, I am merely starting a new conversation which references the other one."

"Oh." Leave it to Sherlock to be confusingly specific, John thinks. "What're you saying, then?"

"It seems that we are not friends... not _only_ friends."

John thinks about this for a moment. "Oh." He rolls over onto his side to face Sherlock, whom he discovers is facing him already. His eyes are wide.

"Sherlock. Come here." He reaches out for Sherlock's shoulders, and Sherlock moves close. John pulls him closer, snaring him in a hug. "Are you saying that you want us to be... together?"

"Would it be.... inconvenient for you?"

John chuckled. "Living with you is inconvenient. I'm not worried about convenience, Sherlock." The reply comes in the form of Sherlock wrapping his arms tentatively around John. He looks in Sherlock eyes. "But I am surprised. Why are you telling me this now?"

Sherlock says nothing.

"This can't be a one-sided conversation, Sherlock. If you want this to happen - "

"I would like to know somethings that I have never asked before."

John raises his eyebrows. "...What?"

"What's your favorite color?"

"My - my what?"

"Color. Favorite color. I need to know." John looks at the man he lives with, the one he knew was already re-categorizing John from 'friend' to 'better half,' and realizes with a sting of regret that he'd been in an exclusive relationship with Sherlock. He just wished he had noticed sooner.

Sherlock waits for an answer. John smiled, and closed the space between their lips. The pressure was light, and John was pleased to discover warmth and sweetness where so many snide comments and come from. John opened his eyes to a genuine smile and a tinge on Sherlock's cheeks.

"Red."


End file.
